


Sleeping Soundly in Our Bed

by shortinsomniacs (Liv_Golightly)



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Gen, HIV/AIDS, Hurt/Comfort, Jason and Marvin bonding, Marvin is soft, Mild Fluff, Post-Canon, some good old fashioned hurt and comfort, they miss Whizzer, they're both grieving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 22:40:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13040973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liv_Golightly/pseuds/shortinsomniacs
Summary: Marvin can't sleep after Whizzer dies. As it turns out, neither can Jason. They both miss Whizzer too damn much.





	Sleeping Soundly in Our Bed

**Author's Note:**

> it's 2 AM, so, naturally, it's time to write a fic. i do not own Falsettos. all rights go to its creators.

“Dad?”

 

Well, it looks like sleep isn’t coming. You roll over and flick on the lamp that rests on your bedside table, trying not to think about how empty the rest of your bed feels. Or how Jason would’ve asked for Whizzer, too, because you admittedly sleep like a rock.

 

Whizzer was good like that. He was a natural with Jason, honest and gentle. You know he would’ve gone to the ends of the Earth for your son. Hell, you’d even found Whizzer curled up with Jason in Jason’s twin bed once. He’d had a nightmare, Whizzer had explained, and he couldn’t just leave Jason _alone_. Even if that meant all six-feet-four-inches of him ended up squashed in a bed much too small for his lean, lanky frame.

 

“What’s wrong, Jason?” you ask, sitting up in bed.

 

“I—I can’t sleep,” Jason murmurs, shifting awkwardly and biting his lip. His eyes are swollen and red, and so are the edges of his nose. You see faint red spots splattered across the deep purple circles under his brown eyes. Jesus, has he been crying so hard he caused his _blood vessels_ to burst? “Can I—I mean, I need— I, um, can I stay here? With you?”

 

Jason is thirteen, growing taller by the minute, but he looks so small. You’re reminded of him at six, tiny and messy-haired, half asleep on the couch because he wanted to wait up for you when you were working late.

 

“Oh, Jason,” you say gently, “Of course, sweetheart, come here.”

 

The term of endearment feels strange as it falls from your lips, but Jason _is_ sweet, and if Whizzer called you “sweetheart” on a daily basis, then why couldn’t you say the same for your son?

 

Jason clambers onto the bed. He rolls onto his side and rests his head on Whizzer’s pillow.

 

“It smells like him,” Jason whispers, and you see his lip tremble slightly. He sighs and rubs his puffy eyes as a distraction. You grab his hand and gently force it downward.

 

“Don’t do that,” you scold lightly. “You’ll irritate them more.”

 

“’M sorry,” Jason mutters.

 

“You don’t need to apologize, Jason. Would you like me to get you a compress?”

 

He nods jerkily. You kiss his forehead and rise out of bed, heading towards the master bath. You pull a flannel out of the closet and run it under cool water for a few minutes, squeeze it out, and apply it to Jason’s sore eyes.

 

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

 

“You’re welcome,” you reply, crawling back into bed. “Leave it on for a few minutes, kiddo. Is it helping?”

 

He nods, and the two of you lie in silence until Jason removes the flannel from his eyes. He balls it up and throws it into the hamper.

“Dad?”

 

“Yes?”

 

Jason rolls over to face you. “When does it stop hurting? ‘Cause when I think of—of—Whizzer, it hurts. I—I really miss him, Dad.”

 

He sounds so small. So lost. You can practically feel your heart shattering. It’s not like when he was five and scraped his knee; you can’t give him a Superman bandage and a kiss on the head and send him off to play. You can’t bring Whizzer back. Jason’s lip quivers again, and you watch him try to stop it, try to put a brave face on like the man he’s become, but he can’t. The tears begin.

 

You’re frozen for a second, because Jason really isn’t a crier, and drying his tears has always been more Trina’s thing, which, honestly, it shouldn’t have been, but you were, well, absent, sometimes—

 

_But you’re not absent now_ , Whizzer’s voice sounds in your head. _You’re here, and Jason loves you, and you are more than allowed to comfort him._

 

You wonder how long you’re going to be able to remember Whizzer’s voice clearly.

 

Gently, you draw Jason into your arms and hold him against your chest. “Shhh, it’s okay, Jason,” you soothe, rubbing his back. “I know you miss him, sweetheart. I know. Everything will be all right….”

 

“Daddy,” Jason whimpers, “I just—I don’t want him to be—to be gone!”

 

You’re at a loss of what to say, so you just keep murmuring, “It’s okay, it’ll be all right, I love you,” and stroking his hair until he wears himself out.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely, sniffling.

 

You reach for the glass of water on your bedside table and hand it to him. He gulps it greedily, and when he finishes, he settles with his head back on your chest.

 

“I’m sorry,” Jason repeats.

 

“For what?” you ask gently. “You don’t need to apologize, Jason. If you need to cry—it’s okay. From my experience, it’s a lot worse if you keep it bottled up. Then you explode, eventually, and I don’t really like the person I am when I get like that.”

 

“No offense, Dad, but I don’t like you when you’re like that, either.”

 

A chuckle escapes from your lips, and you kiss his forehead. “None taken, kiddo.”

 

A small smile graces Jason’s face. “I mean, you haven’t been like that for a while. Especially not since you and Whizzer got back together. He—he really, _really_ loved you, Dad. Like, a lot. You know that, right?”

 

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I know. I loved him, too. I still love him—I don’t think I can describe how much. Almost as much as I love you, kid.”

“I love you, too,” Jason replies, and shit, you might cry. You’re aware that Jason doesn’t seem to actively hate your guts anymore—far from it, if you’re being honest—but you’re not sure when the last time you’ve heard him say that was. Like you, he’s not great at expressing this sort of stuff.

 

Well. You’re getting better at it.

 

“Dad?” Jason pipes up again.

 

“Hmm?” you hum in reply.

 

“Whizzer—Whizzer got sick ‘cause he was gay, right?”

 

“Jason, I’m not— “

 

“I read some of Aunt Charlotte’s doctor magazines while I was waiting for you to come back from the hospital one day. They said that gay men were all getting sick.” He pauses. “You’re—you’re not gonna get sick too, are you?”

 

There’s a barely-concealed air of terror surrounding his words, and you try hard to not think of what Charlotte had told you, or of the small purple lesion you’d noticed on your ankle, smaller than the nail on your little finger. It was only a matter of time before more appeared. But you can’t bring yourself to be honest with the boy nestled in your arms. Not tonight.

 

“I’m perfectly healthy, kiddo,” you soothe. “I’m all right.”

 

“You look a little pale,” Jason remarks. “But it’s probably ‘cause you haven’t slept, either.”

 

“Why don’t we try and get some sleep, then? I’ll make challah French toast in the morning.”

 

“I’m glad that’s the one thing you _can_ make without burning it!”

 

“Hey, I’m getting better at cooking!”

 

“Yeah,” Jason agrees. “The chicken you made was almost edible.”

 

A laugh bubbles out of you, and you feel lighter, if only for a few moments. “Try to sleep, Jason. You can critique my terrible cooking in the morning.”

 

He yawns. “Night, Dad.”

 

“Good night, kid.”

 

It doesn’t take long for Jason for fall asleep, his small body curled in on itself. His head still rests on your chest, and his breathing evens to something deep and slow. You relish this moment; God knows there won’t be many more until you, too, are confined to a hospital bed, being tortuously consumed by your own failing body.

 

You don’t sleep.


End file.
